The Breeze of Now Feels More Real Than Tomorrow’s Sky
It’s 4:30 in the morning on a sticky summer night, and I’m lying in bed like a restless rotisserie chicken—flipping from side to side, sweating through my shirt, and wondering how the hell people just fall asleep like it’s some natural human ability. Last night’s coffee is still running laps in my bloodstream, and tomorrow’s meeting agenda is on an endless loop in my head like an obnoxious pop song I never asked for.
And, of course, once your brain is awake at stupid o’clock, it decides to invite the whole anxiety marching band to practice. The thoughts come marching in—bank account’s looking dangerously anorexic, rent might be going up, how am I going to make more money next year, and what if one of my cats gets sick? That last one hits especially hard because vet bills are basically legalized robbery. The parade keeps going—every scenario somehow worse than the last—and I’m lying there thinking, Great. I’m about three more thoughts away from a full-blown existential crisis before sunrise.
Meanwhile, next to me, my beautiful girlfriend is snuggled up, sleeping like a Disney princess after the happily-ever-after credits roll. Breathing steady, cute little snores, completely oblivious to my mental implosion. I watch her with a weird cocktail of admiration, jealousy, and “How the hell do you do that?” brewing inside me.
The whole thing makes me feel like I’m halfway up some impossible skyscraper—let’s say floor eight. I’ve been climbing forever, legs shaking, lungs burning, feeling like I’ve survived a war just to get this far. But when I look up? The building just keeps going, vanishing into the clouds, the top nowhere in sight. And I start wondering—why am I killing myself looking up at the floors I haven’t reached, instead of noticing the ones I’ve already conquered?
That’s when it clicks—maybe I should take a second, look down, and actually appreciate how far I’ve come. The view isn’t bad from here. There’s a breeze—cool, soft, real. But no, most of us don’t do that. We’re too busy drooling over the penthouse while ignoring the perfectly good champagne in our hands. We obsess over what’s “next” and “more” and “better” until the present moment slips away like it was never even ours.
And yeah, part of it is fear—fear that money will run out, fear that love will fade, fear that health will crumble, fear that we will crumble. But here’s the inconvenient truth: nobody can guarantee that when you finally claw your way to the top, the view will be any better than the one you’ve got now.
So maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to pause. To let the breeze hit your face. To breathe in a little pride for the battles you’ve already fought and won. To say, “Screw it, I’ll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow shows up.”
Which is exactly why I grabbed my phone, fired up my favorite horror podcast, and decided that instead of spiraling about my “midlife crisis,” I’d let ghost stories lull me into sleep. After all, if I’m going to be haunted, it might as well be by something entertaining.
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